


Eternal

by chararii



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Lore - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Shippy if you Squint, Stream of Consciousness, The Sundering, War of the Ancients, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chararii/pseuds/chararii
Summary: Before Elune, there was Azshara.
Relationships: Azshara & Tyrande Whisperwind
Kudos: 9





	Eternal

**Author's Note:**

> Azshara and Tyrande have so much common/shared history. Their origin stories happen side by side and even cross at multiple junctions and yet it was never expanded on. I am unhappy and need to vent. As a byproduct, I fleshed out my interpretation of Azshara's character on the way.

It begins, like most things do, by chance. It is a coincidence, an unplanned moment, little more than a second in the very midst of an empire run on the very fact that nothing at all happens without being planned. Zin-Azshari, the city of the highborne, the seat of her power, the heart of the greatest queen to ever have lived. Nothing happens on these shores without Azshara having a hand in it, or a finger, or even a mere whisper. It is her home, her playground, her soul all in one. Nobody moves without her feeling an echo of their step, the thrum of the power that rests in every man, every woman, child, or leaf.

 _Nothing_ happens without her knowing about it in advance.

Except... well. Now _this_ is a novelty.

She knows the girl. An adult by law she may be but in comparison to Azshara herself, all those who wander her land are simple children. She has been around long before any of them first opened their eyes and will be around long after they closed them for the last time. But ah. She digresses. She doesn't gift the girl any of her attention, is surrounded by courtiers and well-wishers, devoted subjects and servants. All those she protects and who offer themselves in turn.

The silks and velvets covering their flawless skin are rich in colour and soft to the touch. The gold and gems decorating their arms, neck, and calves glitter in the bright light of the moon, sparkle like the water lapping at their feet. Their eyes shine bright, the deep reds and purples covering their lips smell faintly of berries and the arcane, Azshara's favourite fragrance. Bodies both slim and curvy are well within her grasp, waiting for her command with bated breath, eager to be chosen to dress her sheets at night.

She inspects them casually, giving each a hint of attention, a small taste of what it is like to be found worthy. It is when her gaze glides from man to woman that she notices her. A priestess, clad in the robes of Elune's most faithful. The girl's skin is more pink than blue, a shade typically associated with the common folk. It is for that reason alone that Azshara immediately dismisses the girl from her thoughts despite briefly appreciating the contrast of pink skin on rich turquoise hair.

She's prepared to not think of her again, one of the initiates chosen to attend the temple during the queen's revel, a background figure not worth further attention. Azshara moves on, smouldering golden eyes already on their way to once more focus on pretty faces when the girl unexpectedly raises her head.

Time slows to a crawl. In truth, the girl is nothing special. She is beautiful but in a childish sort of way. Fully grown yet innocent, as priestesses tend to be. There's none of the wilfulness Azshara prefers in others, a secret she keeps ever so close to her chest. Unconditional devotion and obedience are only worth as much as a few spirited hearts to keep the balance. Vashj is a fine example of that. The girl isn't.

She seems dull to the naked eye, pretty, diligent, with toned muscle that gives away her love for the woods and the hunt. Her hands, Azshara knows, must be rough and calloused, entirely unsuitable for the fine delicate touch she so enjoys. A few thin silver scars mar the girl's skin, what little of it isn't covered by white cloth. Even her eyes are nothing special, blue bordering on white, a pair that would see her get lost in the crowd.

And yet they meet Azshara's own, blue to gold, cold to warm, ancient to fresh. A second. Just a second. An outsider wouldn't notice, so short is the moment. Still. Somehow, for one reason or another that she, who knows every answer to every question, cannot explain, that second stays with her. And inexplicably, so does the girl.

The second time is as much of an accident as the first. Or perhaps it isn't. Azshara, who is used to never being surprised, feels a hint of paranoia creeping along the edge of her awareness. As it is, the entire situation is quite ridiculous. It's her jubilee, one of so many she has long since lost count, and she sits on gilded leaves and purple gems with traces of her own magic weighing down the air around her, giving her the air of the most potent mage that she is.

The performances do little to interest her. Azshara knows the songs, the dances, the entire spectacle inside out. She has been celebrating jubilees before most of the performers were even born. After oh so many centuries creativity eventually meets its limits. Truth be told, she is quite bored. It is no unfamiliar feeling yet one she abhors ever so much. Boredom is her worst enemy, Azshara muses as she casually observers another set of dancers twirling on the stage. Their dresses are so thin she catches glimpses of what lies beneath but even so her attention wanders.

The stars shine bright that night, brighter than they ought to. A sign from Elune, her subjects would say. Azshara doesn't quite agree. She is as beholden to the moon as it is to her; which is not at all. There are many gods but no queen like Azshara. A comparison the common folk would call heresy had she herself not ascended to something beyond even her people's excellence, was just a few steps away from tasting divinity for herself. After all, what is a god to a queen?

The music changes then, slows down and takes all traces of joviality with it. In its place is a hum that promises serenity and calm, something ethereal that is much like the stars and the moon above her. The Order's tribute. Azshara knows this performance inside out as well, has stopped paying attention to the ever-changing faces and names she never cared to remember long ago. Still, she takes a single look at the heavens and narrows her eyes at the almost blinding intensity of the stars. It feels like the demand of a deity she has barely no connection to and that alone makes Azshara want to ignore the priestess's dance in its entirety. She almost does when a flash of pink appears in the corner of her vision. Something clicks in the deepest corner of her mind and whatever it is makes Azshara look.

She recognises her instantly. It would worry her, or at the very least irritate her, were it not for... even inside her own mind, Azshara cannot quite find the words she's looking for. The view isn't breathtaking, doesn't touch her core. She is too old and has seen too much to truly feel the flittering excitement of something new, something unexpected anymore. In the end, she figures she doesn't need to. The view itself is almost as old as her. The movements, the garb, even the music, an endless repetition of a neverending age. The girl isn't.

She sticks out like a sore thumb and Azshara knows she is the only one who can see it. It's not the obvious, the fact that she is pink among a sea of shade of blue or that her muscle strains against a skimpy dress made for slimmer frames or even her hair that is unbound and wild instead of carefully brushed and coiffed. No. What separates this girl from the rest, what sends a gust of fresh air into a dance that holds no secrets to Azshara, is an amalgamation of all the little things only her eyes can catch.

The girl's movements are elegant yet not those of a dancer. She's a huntress, a predator, and moves like one. There's too much force, too little lightness, tempered violence in each step she makes. Azshara recalls her first assessment of the girl, one priestess among many. She doesn't make mistakes, is never wrong, is used to always being _right_. Except there is wildness in her eyes, unrestrained freedom that takes the entire ceremony and tears it to pieces. Azshara briefly closes her eyes and sniffs the air, catches the scent of leaves, resin and cold glitter that belongs to the stars.

It is not her that Elune has come to watch.

She leans back into her throne, crosses one leg over the other and watches as the girl moves, fresh morning dew dripping from her fingertips and with a bright halo of pure timeless magic woven around her head that none but Azshara is aware of.

That day, that jubilee, that dance brings change. Not to the people of Zin-Azshari, no. They continue their lives, willfully blind to what only Azshara can see. It is no drastic change. In fact, it is so subtle that she fails to notice it at first. She is tethered to the city and her people, connected to countless tiny invisible threads of magic. Every bit and piece of spellwork is visible to her, the entire city nothing but an arcane construct to her vision. It is a sight she has gotten used to, a sight she has come to adore. To find it altered is displeasing at best, outrageous at worst.

There is a spot in front of her inner eye. The magic of her kind, her own magic, comes in various shades of purple, blue and pink. Such is the nature of pure magic, of the _Arcanca_. Raw power that she harnesses, that comes to her as easy as drawing breath. The bright white flare she wakes up to one day is an anomaly she refuses to tolerate. She attempts to ignore it at first after tapping into the connection and getting a feel for it. It's airy and cold, rather distinct and reminiscent of the magic they weave in Zin-Azshari's temples. A ritual, Azshara concludes. A temporary font of power. One that will fade after a day or two. Except it doesn't. It remains stubbornly, to her endless frustration. And it is not the only change.

The sky is different. Daytime is as she is used to. A bright warm light painting her city in countless shades of gold that glides over white marble and deep red leaves, giving everything it touches an almost ethereal glow. It is magic upon magic, a kind that is entirely unique and will forever remain unmatched. Daytime is, as always, as she is used to. But when the gold fades, gradually makes way for the night, Azshara finds herself gazing upon a different horizon.

It is the moon and the stars that rest so high above her head, so vivid she has to avert her eyes. Their light is beaming and blazing, so thick with power and magic that the agony nearly splits her head in two. There are no clouds that night, or any other that follows. Nothing to obstruct the touch of a goddess who has never quite abandoned her skies yet returned to them with full force. Azshara feels the ghost brush against her skin and make it crawl. Power of a nature that clashes with her own, rubs against it, leaving behind sparks.

She stares at the sky with narrowed eyes and clenched teeth. This city, these people, belong to her. They adore and worship her, bring her gifts and offerings, have in that way declared her the goddess of their kind. The throne is hers and Azshara is not one to share. Even so, as much as she hates to admit it – even just to herself – it is not within her might to combat the moon and the stars. They are out of her reach and don't shine on her, barely even regard her. Perhaps that is what bothers, downright insults, Azshara the most. After everything she has accomplished, despite everything she is, Elune does not find her worthy of attention. Does not even consider her a contender for the ultimate devotion of the people.

No. Elune's hands brush turquoise strands alone, caress pink cheeks only, linger in quick strides and strong arms, drift in every arrow her chosen one releases from her grasp.

Azshara cares little for the girl, holds no sentiment or attachment for a simple sister of the order. And yet she finds herself watching the girl, little more than a shade that accompanies her every step, watches her run and hunt, lead rituals and offer prayers. It is now that she has to admit that she was wrong about her first assessment. The girl is nothing at all like an ordinary priestess and yet she is not like Vashj either. There is no balance within her, no carefully cultivated mixture of the calm and the wild. She is, and that is a fact Azshara cannot deny, a spirit that runs on its own heartbeat, that is not given to its queen, that belongs to nothing but the moon.

She hates at first and hates vigorously. The girl is meant to serve none other than her, is meant to love her like everyone else, is meant to worship the very ground Azshara walks on. It is the duty of her people and this girl is a subject like any other. But the moon never fades, the clouds never obscure the stars. They shine bright, night after night, and sink their claws into the girl's being, take her away from Azshara who has the only rightful claim on her.

It is unacceptable. And she will make sure to remedy this atrocity.

If Vashj notices, she holds her tongue. She knows Azshara better than anyone else even if she glimpses merely her queen's most surfacing layers. Still, Azshara's nightly strolls remain unmentioned, her pensive silences unquestioned. Vashj tends to her as she has always done, both in and outside the bedroom. They rely on each other, have functioned in perfect harmony for centuries. So when Azshara spends fewer nights with her body entangled with Vashj's and more wandering the city under the traitorous moonlight not in search, but in expectation of the girl, her decision is met with utter acceptance.

It is not that she looks for her. She is a queen after all, and she does not come to others; they come to her. Impatience and irritation fuel her motives however so instead of waiting and over the course of months gradually willing herself into the girl's mind, she takes the more effective if infinitely less dignified route. Like an offering, she presents herself, walks Zin-Azshari under a thin illusion that hides her appearance but not her power. The commoners that live close to the temple cannot taste her and she is invisible to them. She is noticeably less invisible to her wayward worshiper.

Curiousity is a driving force in both of them, Azshara can confidently say this without ever having spoken to Elune's chosen. And true to that, it takes only three days for the girl to leave the sanctuary of her temple and step out into the chilly night air. Azshara stands on the edge of the temple premises where the ground ends and the sea begins. The girl has not yet learned how to confine her power to her body so she is a walking bonfire made from the heavens and all that resides within. The power is both familiar and foreign, an echo of a memory Azshara can barely recall. How long has it been since she herself had been fully devoted to the moon? She cannot remember.

The girl doesn't speak and Azshara approves. There is no sound but the gentle waves rippling across the water, rocking against the foundation of the city, accompanied by the faint hum of magic in the air. They remain for what could be minutes or hours, silent, still, eternal. Eventually, Azshara turns and leaves without having glanced at the girl, without having spoken a single word. There's no need for either. They are connected now on a level that goes beyond what she shares with every other citizen. It's not worth mentioning to anyone, so Azshara doesn't. The priestess goes about her day, far away from the palace but glowing so bright Azshara always knows exactly where she is.

Every night without fail, they meet at the shore. Every night, their lips stay sealed. Every night, the stars shine down upon them, one more so than the other. Azshara bides her time. They all come to her, eventually. This girl will be no different.

When the balance is toppled, it is not Azshara's doing. Her patience is infinite where her temper isn't and she is not one to be rash or uncontrolled. The girl is much different in that regard. It is another night, another celebration. There's music, Azshara's favourite songs, wine in abundance, food, and dancers. The festivities in Zin-Azshari are lavish, filled with splendour, colour and indulgence. She somehow never tires of them, is not drawn to the arts or performances but the utter adoration and devotion of those who gaze upon her. Whatever is being celebrated; the tides, the seasons, magic, or historical events, it does not matter. At the centre of it all is always Azshara.

Hours go by as the sun sets until it disappears into the waters, makes way for the night sky that never fails to raise her ire. It is an odd feeling, to feel resentment for the powers that gave birth to her yet here she is. Not an ungrateful child, more a fully grown daughter that knows she can surpass her mother. It is almost enough to make her rise, abandon the festivities and retire when something catches her eye. It is like the last time. It also isn't.

The cloth that hugs the girl's frame is spun from the finest silk, thin and translucent with a shimmer that reflects starlight and dust, glitters like the countless little diamonds that are sewn into the fabric. It has been fitted to her athletic body, follows curves and muscle and hides nothing. She is alone on the stage this time, not merely a single dancer surrounded by her fellow priestesses. She's still not the best dancer, can't compare to the others. The beauty in her performance lies in the fact that she doesn't need to.

With every movement she makes, no matter how minuscule, the sky shifts. Stars align and drift, the moon pulses when she twirls and the entire world is drowned in shadows as all of the light focuses on her. She is so bright it burns Azshara's eyes and yet she does not look away. The girl is more than herself as she dances, lives and breathes Elune, an essence that makes Azshara's fingers twitch with the desire to replace it with her own. She is a vessel, a conduit, a beacon, and Azshara wants her to glow in her own image, be a manifestation of her own power. She is not jealous, is above such notions, but she cannot stop herself from wondering how much more beauty this girl could carry, were she an embodiment of Azshara's spirit instead.

Time loses its meaning as she watches. The girl never falters, never tires, dances and dances and dances until the crowd disperses, civilians return home, the guards leave behind their queen until she is the only onlooker that remains. It takes the last of the stars to fade and blink out of existence, make way for a blazing golden dawn, to make the girl stop. She's not tired and her chest barely moves as she breathes. She seems lost for a moment, pensive as she gazes at the horizon, seemingly caught in her own thoughts. The moment barely lasts a second, is broken by a tilt of her head that finds her eyes meeting Azshara's.

“My Queen,” she murmurs and the velvety tone of her voice worms itself into Azshara's ears to anchour itself within her mind. It is nothing special, smooth and deeper than that of the average female, rough from countless hours spent in the wilds in utter silence. It fits her. Azshara doesn't rise, remains seated, but the girl holds her attention and does not crumble under the weight of her gaze. She hadn't expected her to but is pleased nevertheless.

“Come,” she says and the girl obeys without hesitating. She approaches Azshara's elevated throne, stops in front of the stairs, bare toes touching the first step. They are the same height or would be, were they stand face to face. Few are as tall as her, Azshara muses as she regards the girl. Her hair is slightly mussed, as wild as ever. She wonders if anyone tried to make her tame it for the performance. If she was asked to paint her face or hide the scars. This one never looked like a priestess, is rough where she is meant to be delicate, wild where she is meant to be gentle. It suits her in a way it does so very few.

She gets to her feet then and one by one walks down the stairs, glides with all the elegance the girl doesn't possess. They are like polar opposites and the inherent beauty of their contrast is impossible to describe. She extends a single digit, brushes it against her cheek. Her skin is cold and rough just like Azshara imaged it to be. A single faded scar runs along her jawbone and she traces it, follows it, before allowing her palm to rest and cup her face.

“What is your name, young one?” she asks, whispers the words into the air between them. Names hold power and Azshara who has staked her claim, who wants this girl for herself, needs to hear it so she can grasp that for which she longs and keep it close to her chest forevermore. Her desire is selfish and while she doesn't know if she wants this girl for her own sake or because she is promised to Elune, it ultimately doesn't matter.

The stars have vanished by now and birds begin to chirp as the world wakes up once more. Yellow, orange and gold paint their surroundings, bring warmth to the coldness of the girl, make her soft and reveal the roundness of her edges. She looks younger now, vaguely diminished, more like herself and less like the avatar of Elune Azshara doesn't want her to be. Like this, Azshara thinks, she is almost beautiful.

“Tyrande,” the girl replies, and Azshara's eyes glow in victory.

The days grow darker as the night takes up more and more space and time, bringing about a new wave of worship. She is partially to blame for this and would admit this to herself, were Azshara not above such petty concerns. Elune burns bright in her disciple and it is her personal failing that she hasn't removed her long ago. She is beyond this now, has crossed the border so long ago she cannot recall the exact moment in time. The moment she decided that ridding herself of the girl and what she embodies is failure in itself. That true victory can only be achieved by complete and utter submission. Azshara long since lost the desire to become the girl's executioner and wants to be her goddess instead.

Her indulgence is what allowed the girl to thrive and grow, to be cultivated by Elune, to grow into her power. What rests beneath her skin is no longer a secret only Azshara is privy to. Even the commoners can sense it, can sense _her_ , and follow her for it. She smells of the sky and glows like the stars, is a shard of divinity walking among the simple and unworthy. She is loved and, by extension, so is Elune. Azshara sees and hates and knows that the time to take matters into her own hands has come. There can only be one victor and Azshara refuses to come in second.

She stands on the edge of her balcony and gazes into the night sky before watching the revels down below. They praise Elune and the Order and in her fury, Azshara brings the storm. Xavius is one of her favoured though far away from being special in any way, shape or form. Yet even the blind eventually find something of value. An annoyance he may be, this one thought of his brings light to her eyes and conviction to her actions. A new world, shaped in her image, a reality created with her own hands. A new age of worship for her that elevates her above even the stars, makes her the queen goddess she is meant to be. No stars, no moon, nothing but magic and arcane held in between her fingers like countless pocket-sized galaxies. A kingdom large enough to span the entirety of the world, all under her rule.

“Glory to Azshara,” she murmurs in the privacy of her chambers with her eyes set on the source of her people's power, both aware and not of the white flare residing within a temple that will soon shake, crumble and fall. She will be their goddess and they will worship her with nothing else to contest her rightful position at the centre of the universe.

They all come to her, eventually. All but the girl who, in the end, turns out to be different after all.

Deep down, she has always known that one day, this moment would come. She never envisioned a peaceful state of coexistence, willing acceptance of a fate so unavoidable the mere effort to escape it is almost enough to make Azshara wistful. She knows the girl, has touched her soul in a way not even her husband ever experienced, is linked to Elune's daughter, closer than a mother, a sister, or even a lover. Azshara knows that the one made of stars would never surrender.

She is a curious sight, foreign yet familiar as she kneels on pristine polished stone, armour torn, held in place by Azshara's most accomplished guardsmen. Fury and fire burn in blue eyes that stare at Azshara as if mere thought would set her alight. The girl hates and hates so deeply that Azshara is momentarily out of breath. Such fierce emotion, unbridled and primal like everything else of the girl, a perfect display of the ancient magic that has taken root inside her very core. It is cold and has another goddess' touch. Azshara longs to take it and rip it from her, crush it between her fingers and replace it with her own.

“A place by my side,” she says, calm and collected with her head tilted to the side. She takes in the girl's ragged breath, the rise and fall of her chest, and reaches out to cradle her cheek. She is beautiful like this, rendered helpless but always refusing to give in. Her cheek is split open, a narrow gash marring otherwise unblemished pink skin. Azshara swipes a thumb over the cut and digs it into the open wound. The girl gasps and Azshara almost – almost – smiles. They're in the heart of her palace, her personal domain where the ceiling reaches towards the sky and delicate architecture obscures the stars, hides them from the eyes of her oldest rival. It is just the two of them and everyone else is so insignificant they might as well not exist.

“It can be yours. You need only ask.” She is aware of the softness in her voice, the compulsion which she weaves and controls masterfully entirely absent. She blinks and watches as the girl's resolve crumbles, as her walls begin to fall, as she leans forward ever so slightly to be closer to Azshara's touch. She thinks of countless nights they spent at the shore, together yet not and of the only dance they ever shared, watches as the lights that stick to turquoise strands die and begin to fade. This one is standing on an edge and Azshara longs to pull her down into the depths.

“I...” Her voice falters and Azshara knows she has her. Her plan unfolds at long last, patience pays off and victory is so close she can almost taste it. She has coveted the girl's essence ever since she first laid eyes on her, fought over her soul and made a mockery of Elune, of the moon and the stars who attempted to take what rightfully belongs to the once and future queen. Her hand moves without her consent as she gently grasps her chin and tilts her head upwards to stare into her blue eyes.

“Make your choice, Tyrande.” It is the first time the girl's name has passed her lips and her tongue curls around the syllables with the care one would show a priceless artifact. Both loving and detached, gentle and insistent, warm and cold. After all these centuries Azshara is still morbidly and inexplicably fascinated by the one who kneels in front of her. They are so different yet somehow similar and while Azshara would claim the girl is no secret to her, there are fragments and parts that are still hidden away that she cannot ever hope to glimpse at. She is a paradox, a revealed secret, a discovered mystery.

She is, despite her common birth and her tarnished soul, despite her lack of arcane power, despite her calloused hands and dense muscle, despite her love for a man who can never hope to match up to her, _despite everything,_ Azshara's favourite. She reaches down, cradles her face in between her hands, ready to pull her up and close into an embrace that will see her consumed and surrendered to the divinity that is Azshara, when the girl does the one thing Azshara never expected.

She is her favourite. And she turns her down.

The world sunders and forever rips apart the realms of the stars and the sea and places them on two opposite separate planes with nothing but a mirror offering a glimpse into what lies just so out of reach.

She doesn't miss the stars, doesn't mourn the loss of a connection to a goddess she has turned her back on long ago. The deep is her home now where all is dark and cold, an endless abyss that is hers to rule and control as the queen beneath the tides. Neither does she miss memories of old, of a girl carved from the stars themselves that was both barely part of Azshara's most fleeting thoughts and an eternal presence lodged so deeply inside her mind that she would never fade. She doesn't think of her, is too preoccupied with ruling her empire, and working towards absolute perfection, one step at a time.

And yet, once every five hundred years, she finds herself drifting upwards where she places a flat palm against the watery surface that is smooth and pristine, the mirror that separates her kingdom below from the world above. Even then, removed from her roots, taken and twisted and changed by magics older than time, Azshara feels the distinct chill against her hand, hears the faint call of music that belongs to a different life and tastes glitter, berries, and the stars that shine on the other side of her reflection, connecting her to the one that has always brought waves to Azshara's eternal ocean.

Dark pink ears barely twitch upon hearing the faint rustle of leaves behind her that announce the arrival of her most trusted. She felt her approach long ago, heard her name in the wind, a whisper that never wanes, never fades.

“I apologise for the intrusion.” There is no need to pretend, not with this one, so she allows herself to calm, take some of the cultivated nature that disgusts her so and let it enter her body and mind. Green is green, she would say if asked. A simple answer that satisfies the simple minds of mortals that would never be able to fully grasp the world surrounding them. She catches herself then, stops her thoughts before they can drift even further. She's not one to get lost in them.

“You never intrude,” she replies, lets the hushed murmur pass her lips. A welcome respite, the low tones with which they speak. Even now she hears the bustling and noise of the city she has come to despise. A refuge or a prison. Perhaps both. A small breath leaves her lungs and her fingers twitch, itching to reach for the weapon strapped to her back and leave this place behind, run into the woods and _hunt_ until she can no longer move.

“I bring news.” No hesitation but a waver none but herself would catch. She knows the assault went as planned. It is impossible to ignore the humans and their revels that are so very different from... She blinks and refocuses. Some things are best not dwelled on. She waits for her to speak, somewhat curious about what would cause her child to hesitate when they won this fight. One fight of many. One she truly stopped caring about long ago.

“The assault went as planned. Ny'alotha is conquered.” Perhaps once she would have felt more than a passing sense of accomplishment. She would have celebrated once. Among her people, in her city, with her husband and loved ones by her side. The pleasant chill of the stars and moon warms for a moment and she almost – almost – smiles. Even though everything she has ever held dear is gone, there is one presence that will never fail her.

“But...” She wonders if Proudmoore perished. She loves her daughter but she has a habit of becoming attached. Few would cause Shandris to pause. Whatever news she has must pain her child greatly. Or perhaps, she realises belatedly, the pause is for _her_ sake.

“She was there. She reportedly aided the effort after suffering at the hands of one of N'Zoth's followers.” Her breath doesn't catch and her heart doesn't still but without looking up at the sky, she knows that for the fraction of a second, the stars had dimmed.

“And then she...” Another pause. She waits with the patient of a saint despite hearing the call of the waves and feeling the water soak the bottom of her feet while standing on land, several feet above the shore.

“...she disappeared. She's gone.” A single puff of air passes her lips, disturbs the silence that has befallen this removed corner of the harbor. She knows better but still turns her gaze towards the ocean, watches gentle waves and ripples, feels a hint of a power she hasn't tasted in over ten thousand years yet still reacts to as if it sat within her own bones. It is diminished and weak, such a contrast to the heavy presence she is used to, so thick and strong she knows who is resting beneath the surface, always watching, always waiting.

The sea is almost invisible to her now, smells less, is quiet and dull and grey. Its queen is absent and she can't help but wonder if she is the only one to know this, to know the difference, to be able to tell when she's there and when she's not. If she is truly the only one who resonates so strongly with a ruler only so few remember as more than a primordial nightmare that is spoken of only in hushed tongues and cautionary tales for children.

“Tyrande?” She blinks as the voice tears her from her thoughts. She stares at the ocean that is still dull and grey and finds she can barely stand the sight.

“She was never going to die.” She can't tell the tone of her own voice, isn't sure if she sounds wistful, neutral, or determined. She experiences all three in equal amounts but refuses to think about the implications. Their history is long, so very long and hazy, undefined and complicated yet so utterly simple. It was never put into terms, was never acknowledged by either party. Through peace and war, battles where they stood on the same or opposing sides, violence, hatred, revenge.

“You... do not seem as disturbed as I expected.” She chuckles then, a quiet sound she makes before she even realises. The shock emanating from the presence behind her is palpable. She tilts her head backwards and cranes her neck, stares at the sky and marvels at the twinkling stars that dot the endless expanse high above her. It is not entirely unlike the sea she thinks. Vast, deep, unexplored and so rich with power it draws her in, cradles her head and lays her down to rest.

Elune watches over her, the stars guide her, the moon fills her with strength and the will to lead her people. It is an ancient bond that has always sheltered her, filled with trust, devotion and a constant urgent sense of security. She stands with both feet firmly planted on soil and grass, connecting her to the earth and nature with her eyes turned towards the sky. It is who she is, who she has always been. And yet...

A harsh gust of wind ruffles her hair as her gaze dips lower, to the shore, the surface of the water, the deep sea. She takes a deep breath, smells salt and darkness, lets this darkness enter her body and flow through her being; gentle and familiar like an old friend she hasn't seen in centuries. Every bit and piece is known to her, filled with wisps and pieces of something larger than life, the darkness to Elune's light, the siren's call to the moon's luminescence. There is no denying either. She belongs to both. Always has. Always will.

“I have received worse news,” she hums as she stands on the thin earthen layer that separates one realm from the other, the mirror's surface above which lie the stars, beneath which rule the tides. She is Tyrande Whisperwind, the Night Warrior, the High Priestess of Elune, the leader of the Kal'dorei. She is the moon and the stars, the goddess' chosen, the once and future saviour of her kind. That is who she is. Who she needs to be. It is one half of a whole, a truth she displays while hiding away what must not be seen.

For before the sky, there was the sea.

Before the moon, there was the water.

And before Elune, there was Azshara.

Tyrande remains on the shore until the sun rises, the ghost of a smile on her lips as she watches the reflection of twinkling stars on calm waters that slowly, invisible to any eyes that are not her own, once more gain in colour.

**Author's Note:**

> This is... an odd one. Not a venting piece but I didn't plan it out like I usually plan my stories. I simply sat down and let it write itself. Azshara and Tyrande are my favourite characters and it bothers me that they have so much shared history that the game never explores. Tyrande wasn't even in the expansion that was partially dedicated to Azshara.  
> I wanted to flesh out their shared past and expand upon it with an extremely self-indulgent touch. It's not quite head-canon territory but close to it. I don't know. I genuinely have no idea how to feel about this. I just know that I needed to get it off my chest.
> 
> It is deliberately vague even though it uses the canon timeline as backbone. If there are questions I'm happy to elaborate.
> 
> We'll be back with the usual program soon enough, probably after the holidays.


End file.
